


not your friend

by eggstasy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, Gen, Post-Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6094123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dealing with Caboose might be a pain in the ass, but at least it’s time spent not following Sarge’s inane orders or listening to Simmons desperately trying to convince himself of the validity of their stupid fake war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not your friend

“What do you think he does all day over there?”

Grif yawns, scratching his ass with the muzzle of his rifle without checking if the safety is on.  “I really do not care.”

“I mean, he must be doing something.  He hardly comes out and when he does, he’s just sneaking around that downed ship.”

“Simmons?  Think about what you’re saying here.  You’re saying _Caboose_ is up to something.  That would imply he has the ability to plan anything, and then has the ability to _carry out_ said plans.”

Pointing that out at least gets Simmons to shut up about it.  “Yeah, but what _else_ could he be doing?”  For five seconds.

“Why do you even care?”

Simmons rounds on him and Grif can feel it, taste it in the air, the precursor to Simmons being offended because if there’s one thing he can count on, it’s Simmons always being in a state prepared to defend himself.  “Well for one, Sarge told us to keep an eye on Blue Base-”

“-you’ve _got_ to be kidding me-”

“- _and_ for another thing, what else are we going to do out here?”  Simmons gestures around them with his battle rifle.  “There’s not exactly a surplus of shit to do, Grif.  We have to keep ourselves entertained somehow.”

“No, we really don’t.  I for one propose we do nothing and tell Sarge that the Blues aren’t up to anything because, shock and surprise, the _single Blue over there_ isn’t up to anything.”  Grif heads back down the hill, boots sliding over loose gravel before he reaches grass.  “Christ, Simmons.  I can’t believe you’re actually humoring that senile old man with this bullshit.”

Simmons knows him too well.  Years ago he might’ve argued, tried to get Grif to stay, but now Grif can hear him climbing down after him because he knows a losing battle when he sees one.  That’s the only war Grif intends to win or die trying: the war against doing stuff.  “What are you trying to say, fatass?”

Simmons playing dumb is really, really annoying.  “You know what I’m saying.” 

The prim little sniff behind him is annoying too, but not enough to do something about it.  “Fine.  I agree that there’s definitely something weird going on.”

“You think?”  Grif stops by the stream and takes to a knee, reaching for the clasps of his helmet.

“Grif!  We’re out in the field, you can’t take your helmet off!”

“Or what, or _Caboose_ is going to take me out?”  Grif rolls his eyes and cups his hands in the water.  “I’m not on his team Simmons, I’m pretty sure I’m safe.”

“Well.”  Simmons shifts his weight uncomfortably anyway, glancing around them with more vigilance than he usually has.  “Or something else could come after us.”

 _Something else?  Subtle, Simmons._   “The Meta’s not gonna to bother with us,” Grif sighs, and splashes some water over his face and neck.  “You know how I know?  Because we’re nobodies.  And huge hulking murderers after AI fragments and Freelancer shit don’t care about nobodies.  We wouldn’t have ever been on that asshole’s radar if Washington hadn’t roped us into his stupid vendetta.”  Nevermind that Grif was the one to talk to the Meta first.  It was still Washington’s fault.

“You think the emp worked?”

“It definitely fucked up our ride.”  Another splash of water onto his hair.  Grif runs his hands over it.

“So Church really is dead.  For real this time.”  Simmons shifts his weight before finally crouching beside Grif, rifle balanced on his legs.  “D’you believe any of that stuff about him being some tortured AI?”

“It’d explain the complete and utter asshole-ness.”  Grif hadn’t given it much thought, truthfully.  It all seemed part of some huge scandal that he didn’t even so much as want to poke his head into.  As long as he’s still getting his three squares a day (or more) and as long as nobody’s expecting him to do anything about it, it doesn’t matter.  So what if Church was actually some fucked up brain damaged AI?  He still talked like a person, and was a complete prick and generally made their lives much more complicated than was necessary.

“Wow.  I mean, I guess it explains a lot.  Him possessing robot bodies and stuff.  It was just him installing himself, wasn’t it?”  Simmons’ voice gains that thoughtful quality that means he’s hopefully about to just talk to himself for the next twenty minutes as he works things out aloud.  All Grif has to do is pitch in now and then with a ‘yuh huh’ or ‘whatever you say, Simmons.’  He’s so used to the routine at this point that he could probably even doze off during it.

Simmons goes on and on about AI theory and neural implants and armor hardware (“Right, yeah, sure,” says Grif), cites studies about AI fragmentation and ethical standards and does Grif think that Washington got caught or is he dead too (“Whatever you say, Simmons,” Grif sighs), segues into what that means for the Red Army and whether or not it’s really all just _fake,_ like he’d said, or if there’s something more that they’re supposed to be doing, something they’re meant for, destiny, the purpose of life, blah blah blah.  Grif sits against a rock and tunes him out, ready to nod off when he spots their previous target rummaging around the ship.

Really doesn’t look like he’s doing anything.  Grif doesn’t know why Sarge would even entertain the idea that Caboose could be up to something but he’d stopped questioning that man’s judgment ages ago to save himself the headache.  As long as Caboose isn’t bothering them, Grif can’t be assed enough to care what he does.

The idiot wobbles and almost bangs his head against the bent wing of the Pelican and Grif frowns.

“…think there’s a reason why they would waste all that manpower, right?  I mean, they’re resources that could be utilized, but I guess with the war with the Covenant over there’s no point to it.  That happens a lot, historically speaking, where the military ends up drafting and building up its personnel but then when wars abruptly end they’ve got a surplus afterwards and nothing to do with them.  I actually read a few studies about that and how there’s always an upswing of violent crimes about five to ten years after the end of a huge war, because of displaced soldiers who- Grif, are you listening to me?”

“Yeah sure Simmons, I agree completely.”  Grif pushes himself up.

“You asshole, you were falling asleep inside your helmet!”

“Hey.”  Grif nods toward where Caboose is leaning against the Pelican.  “Just in case you still cared, he’s doing something.”

“What?”  Simmons spins around and jerks his rifle up to peer through the scope.  “What’s he _doing_ over there?  Damn it, I knew he was up to no good!  Look.  He’s probably looking for weapons and ammunition.”

“ _Seriously?_ ” 

Simmons at least has the decency to hesitate.  “Well.  I mean, what _else_ could he be doing?”

Christ.  He can’t take this anymore.  Simmons going gung-ho for teacher’s pet because he can’t come to terms with his military life being a lie is so pathetic it’s long since passed into irritating.  “Look, I’m pretty sure Sarge’s ass is getting dried out from the lack of kissing.  Why don’t you go tell him that this damn dirty Blue is up to no good and make his day or whatever.”

“While you what, go find a place to- wait, where are you going?”  Simmons at least doesn’t grab Grif when he passes by, probably because he’s clutching his rifle so tight he’d have to let go of his _one line of defense_ against the dumbest soldier there ever was.

“Yo,” Grif calls as he ambles over to where Caboose is slumped against the ship. 

Caboose’s head takes a long time to jerk up, but that’s nothing new.  Any external stimulus seems to take ten times as long to sink into his thick skull as it does for everybody else.  Back in Rat’s Nest Grif saw the guy stand completely still and completely on fire for ten whole seconds before screaming.  Which, yeah, had been pretty funny.  “Oh,” Caboose says finally, looking up at Grif.  Probably smiling, because unlike Simmons (who knows there is no war but is reluctant to admit it), the idea of opposing teams never quite stuck with him.  “Hi Grif.”

“Yeah, hi.”  Grif glances over the ship.  Still dead.  Still useless and empty and burned.  _Weapons and ammunition,_ what a joke.  “What’s wrong with you?”

“Yeah,” Caboose sighs, “I’m just.  Y’know, I’m just really tired.”

“Uh huh.”  Grif folds his arms.  “Why’re you tired?”

“You know, I don’t know,” Caboose muses, rubbing the chin of his helmet thoughtfully.

Grif knows why.  This idiot.  “All right, get up.”

 _Grif,_ Simmons hisses over their private channel, _what are you **doing?**_

Caboose is taking forever to haul his ass up so Grif might as well take care of this.  He switches his mic over to the private channel.  “Uhh, reconnaissance or some shit.  I’ll be at Blue base.”

 _Blue base?_   Simmons is quiet for a suspiciously long time.  He didn’t join Grif often in Rat’s Nest when Grif snuck over to Blue base to ‘conduct business,’ but Grif knew he ‘d figured out the other reason why he’d gone over there.  _Sarge is gonna be pissed._

“Just tell him I was taken prisoner.”  Grif follows Caboose as he shuffles through the gravel kicked up by the ship’s crash.  “He’ll be so happy he’ll probably give you a promotion.”

And because Simmons actually _is_ smart (a nerd), he sees right through what Grif’s trying to do in a heartbeat.  _Grif, I don’t know.  Maybe we shouldn’t get involved in this._

“Remember that I _still_ outrank you?  Go tell Sarge I was taken prisoner and then don’t bother me, that’s an order.  I’ll be back later.” 

Simmons doesn’t respond which Grif takes as a victory and shadows Caboose all the way back to Blue base before shoving the stupid ox down to sit at the table.  “How long has it been since you ate?”

“Ummm…”

“Jesus Christ.  You’re literally too stupid to live.”  Grif rummages around in the cabinets before withdrawing a handful of dusty MREs.  He thinks about checking the dates- nah.  Those’re really just suggestions anyway, right?  Like ‘best by’ dates instead of ‘use by’ dates.  Even the ‘use by’ dates are really more of a guideline than an actual rule.

The MREs aren’t exactly fine dining, but they’re better than starving and Grif’s almost gotten used to that cardboard taste.  He takes the more tolerable ones for himself, pops and heats one of the grosser ones for Caboose and shoves it in front of him with a fork.  “Eat it.”

Caboose eats it.

Grif cinches his ponytail before digging into his own two MREs and reflecting upon his life choices.  The inside of Blue base is a fucking disaster.  It looks like it’s been on fire at least twice, scorch marks covering the walls and a nasty burnt-metal tang still hanging in the air.  Besides that, there isn’t much to note upon.  Some junk piled up in the corner, with a few tools scattered about.  The idea of Caboose actually using tools is a terrifying one, so Grif resolves to maybe hide a few of those before he leaves.  There doesn’t seem to be anywhere Caboose has set up to bunk, unless he’s been sleeping in one of the back rooms.  He really is completely alone in here.  It’s like leaving a gigantic, particularly stupid five-year-old to fend for himself in a military base.

If there isn’t any other evidence to this whole war being a complete farce, the fact that Caboose is technically still enlisted would be enough.

“You done?”

“Yup, I’m done.  I feel better,” Caboose chirps in surprise as he rubs his stomach.

“Probably because you were starving, you moron.”  Grif shovels half of what is advertised to be a salisbury steak into his mouth and talks around it.  “Why haven’t you been eating?”

“Church said I’m not allowed to use the stove.”

“Church isn’t here.  It’s just you.”  Grif finishes his dinner in the silence that follows that and tosses the cartons aside to be dealt with never.  “Go take a shower.  I’m buzzing your hair.”

“What?!  Noooo,” Caboose whines, hands flying up to his curls.

“Uh yes, I am, because I know you’re not gonna take care of it and _I’m_ sure as hell not taking care of it, so it’s coming off.  Go shower.”  When Caboose doesn’t move Grif scowls and folds his arms.  “I’m a sergeant and you’re just a private so you have to listen to me.”

Caboose sputters.  “That’s not fair!”

Grif shrugs.  “That’s the army.  Go.”

The sounds Caboose makes when he sulks his way into the facilities are kind of hilarious because they remind Grif of when Kaikaina got sent to bed early for being a little shit.  She’s such a damn crybaby.  …Grif should try to figure out where she is, even if the task is daunting.  Who would he even file a personnel request form with?  Their fake Command?

Hiding the tools is more work than it’s worth so Grif just nudges them beneath the junk with his foot.  Maybe if Caboose can’t immediately see them, he’ll assume they’re gone and just stop messing with it.

“Grif?”  Caboose pokes his head around the corner, dripping water.  “Will you wash my back?”

“ _Pretty_ sure you already know the answer to that, Caboose.”

Caboose disappears back into the bathroom with a tortured sigh and Grif heads into the storage rooms downstairs.  There’s something of a nest there, made up of blankets and tarps that Caboose had salvaged from the meager supplies so that’s taken care of at least.  There are fatigues in some of the closets, but they all look to be too small to fit him.  Oh well.  Power armor all the time it is.

There’s water on the floor leading into the kitchen that Grif has to sidestep on his way over.  Caboose sits at the table sopping wet, a towel around his waist but apparently unable to make any more of an effort to dry himself off.  Grif grabs the only other towel from the bathroom, scratchy and standard-issue, the clippers and a comb. 

Dealing with Caboose might be a pain in the ass, but at least it’s time spent not following Sarge’s inane orders or listening to Simmons desperately trying to convince himself of the validity of their stupid fake war.  Tucker yelling all that crap about, “It’s the same!!!” back in the canyon makes so much more sense in retrospect, knowing what he does now.  It’s not as if he cares overly much; it doesn’t matter if the war is fake and against a bunch of differently armored guys, or if it’s real and against a bunch of aliens.  Either way, the army is a fucking mess and Grif never wanted to be here in the first place.

With Caboose’s hair more or less dried and combed, Grif just runs the clippers over his head and ignores the small complaining noises coming out of him.  “ _Stop_ ,” he says finally, rubbing the towel over Caboose’s head and shoulders to get rid of the loose hairs.  “It’ll grow back.”

“I like my hair,” Caboose says glumly.

“Well it looked like shit, so I don’t know why you liked it so much.”  Grif circles around to take a look at Caboose’s face and grimaces.  “You don’t shave either, do you?”

“Church said-”

“-not to touch the razors, I got it.”  Grif sighs.  Great.  Even from the grave, Church is making their lives more difficult.  He drags Caboose back into the bathroom and shoves him down to sit on the edge of the tub.  “Okay, from now on, you’re doing this yourself.  I’ll show you this time but I’m not coming over here to shave your damn beard for you every other day.”

Despite the complete lack of fitting clothes or suitable food, there’s an abundance of toiletries which has Grif wondering about the priorities of the last Blue guys here.  Granted, he puts as little effort into his own hygiene as possible (why bother showering so often when you’re locked into airtight power armor anyway?), but that doesn’t mean he wants to be around other people like that.  His mess is his own mess, thanks.

Caboose has been unusually docile for all of Grif’s prodding.  It’s starting to freak him out the way Caboose’s eyes unfocus and stare into the middle distance as he turns his chin this way and that to scrape the razor over what was clearly going to be a hobo beard in another week.  Is he even here?  God knows what the fuck goes on in his head sometimes, if anything’s actually happening at all.

It’s not until Grif’s back is turned as he washes off the razor that he realizes Caboose had started making sounds again.  Specifically (horrifyingly) he’s making _crying_ sounds, likely because he’s crying, and Grif is so not dealing with that, thank you.  He finishes shaving Caboose’s face as quickly as possible (half of his jaw looks distinctly shaggy compared to the other side) and throws a towel at the guy’s face so he can wipe himself off.

Caboose doesn’t wipe his face off.  He cries into the towel and howls, “Church is dead!”

 _Ah shit,_ Grif thinks as he stands there and debates the merits of actually running away.  Downside: running.  Upside: not dealing with this.  “Why do you even care?” he finally asks, for lack of anything else to say more than because he’s genuinely curious.  “He was a fucking asshole.”

“Church was my best friend and he loved me!”

“No dude, he hated you.”

“That’s just how he showed his love!”

Grif rubs at his face and leaves.  He needs a smoke so fucking badly.

Caboose eventually calms himself down and comes out of the bathroom with most of his armor on. His eyes are still rimmed with red but at least the waterworks have stopped.  “Thank you for hanging out with me, Grif,” Caboose says a little dully, like he doesn’t really mean it but he remembered his manners and wanted to be polite.

There were actually cigarettes in one of the crates downstairs, so coming here hadn’t been a complete waste of his time because now he has like four cartons to do whatever he wants with.  Grif blows out a stream of smoke with a sigh, feeling the frayed edges of his nerves calming already with the introduction of sweet, sweet, highly-addictive nicotine.  “You know you gotta eat.”

Caboose examines his toes.  “I know.”

“And sleep.”

“I’m doing that,” Caboose protests.

Grif studies him.  No dark circles under his eyes; he’s probably telling the truth.  He holds out his half-smoked cigarette.  “Here.  Take a drag.”

Caboose eyeballs it warily.  “Nnnno thank you.”

Grif sticks the filter back between his teeth and rummages in his ammo pouches for a scrap of paper.  Nothing, _especially_ not ammo.  Writing it on the wall in marker will have to do.  “Use this frequency if you need to call me.”  Grif whirls around and jabs the marker in Caboose’s direction.  “Do _not_ call me just to chat, or because you’re lonely or because you found a funny looking rock, or for anything like that.  You got it?”

Caboose hesitates.  “What if because-”

“No.”

“But what if I see-”

“God damn it Caboose, _no._ ”  Grif taps the frequency with the end of the marker.  “This is just for if you need something.  Like if you forgot to eat, or if you cut yourself shaving or something.  Or if Sarge blows your face off.  Call me for that.  Actually, call me slightly before that, so I can come watch.”

Caboose studies the number, then studies Grif and his eyes aren’t doing that vacant stare thing so Grif shifts uncomfortably.  Simmons knowing is one thing; Grif doesn’t think he could stand it if anybody _else_ brought it up.  “Okay,” Caboose says finally, and Grif relaxes.  Which was clearly a mistake because when he turns around to toss the marker back onto the counter, Caboose sneaks up behind him and picks Grif up in a crushing hug.

“No!  Caboose, _get off of me._ ”  Grif struggles, a fruitless endeavor.  “Caboose, let go.  I am _not_ your friend.”

“Yes you are,” Caboose mutters into Grif’s back.

It’s really startling how Caboose can just lift Grif, armor and all, right off the ground like he doesn’t weigh anything.  If there was even a single threatening bone in the moron’s body he might actually be intimidating, but instead he’s just embarrassing and annoying and dumb.  Grif goes limp in the hopes that he can just slide out of Caboose’s grip.  No such luck.  “No, I’m really not.  I’m not friends with anybody.”

“You and Simmons are friends,” Caboose points out.

“Me and Simmons are reluctant allies in the face of boredom.  You’re nothing more than a headache I've gotta deal with.”

“Ahh, Grif.”  Oh god.  Caboose sounds tearful again.  “You know Church always used to say that to me?  You’re just- that’s just so nice to hear.”

Jesus.  “You're goddamn disturbed.  Put me down.”

Caboose, at last, puts Grif down and he takes a deep breath (before coughing).  Fuck, Caboose made him drop the rest of his cigarette.  …well, it’s probably fine.  Grif brushes off the dirt before sticking it back into his mouth and giving Caboose the stink eye.  “You do that again and I'm _never_ coming back here.  Keep your hands to yourself.”

The idiot nods so hard he probably has whiplash now.

“And I’m not your friend.”

Caboose’s smile looks deranged, with his eyes still bloodshot and his nose and cheeks red, scraggly beard still clinging to the edges of his jaw.  “You got it, Gruff.”

_Jesus Christ._

**Author's Note:**

> heard about that implication that grif visited caboose in rat's nest and my heart exploded
> 
>  _grif cares_ pass it on


End file.
